𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 ― steveboy

˚ · .[𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞]. · ˚

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Johnny told me the same thing...

That sentence haunted me all morning while I got ready for work. All day while I was lifting hubcaps, replacing tires, and fixing cars. All day. I kept mentally cursing that thought to go away, but it just hung in the air like a nasty stink that wouldn't go away, no matter how much air freshener you sprayed. When Ponyboy enters the DX garage, the thought finally evaporates, replaced by the odd fluttery feeling that appeared from the sight of Pony's bright smile. Fuck you, I mentally curse. "Hey, Stevey, remember our deal?", Pony says cheerfully. I groan.

"Yes, Curtis I do."

Last night, after my extravagant apology, I promised Pony that I would try harder to understand him better. I also promised I would stop calling him Curtis... but it's become a habit.

Pony scowls. 

"Hey, you promised you'd stop calling me that."

I purse my lips, trying not to smile, though in the end I smirk anyway. 

"I know, but I am lettin' you read to me, ain't I? Cut me some slack."

Pony chuckles. "Yeah...", he sighs, then makes a noise as if he's realized something, "But you'll barely be listenin' anyways. You'll be workin' too."

I shake my head. Unbelievable, I think. 

"I do gotta do my job, you know."

"I know, I know."

I scoff. "Alright, horse kid, get on with it.", I say, calling Pony by my old nickname for him.

Pony laughs, before beginning to read...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

since feeling is first

who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
– the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

That poem hits me deeply. It feels as though a current of electricity just surged through my veins, through my bones. 

"Who was that by?"

Pony chuckles, clearly amused by my total awe. 

"E.E. Cummings. Since Feeling is First", he replies, "We read a few pieces by him last year, and I bought a book of his poems."

I nod, still slightly marveled. 

"You got anymore?"

Pony laughs again. "Well duh. I just said, I got a whole book of 'em."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever.", I say, and leave it at that. A moment later, Pony continues, astonishment filling me with every line.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Later that night, I lay on the Curtis's couch, repeating lines of that poem, Since Feeling is First, to myself. At some point, Pony must have come out for water or something, because in the middle of, like my tenth time repeating the poem, Pony says, "You really liked that poem didn't you?". I take in a sharp breath. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard that I'm afraid Ponyboy can hear it. The darkness of the room creates an electric feeling, and I hate it. "What's it to you?", I say, my voice sharper than I intended.

I can practically feel Pony wince, and I felt horrible. "I'm s-", I begin, but before I finish, Pony leaves. Though I didn't see him leave myself, I can sense in the stale air that he is no longer present. I bit my lip, angry at myself. Until, he returns, the electric current returning. A piece of paper drops in my lap.

"Here. So you'll always have it."

Then, he leaves again. "Dammit.", I hiss, "Dammit."

I screwed up again, and even though Pony was just joking, he was right. I'm not good at being nice. I'm cold blooded, cold hearted, and nothing anyone says, nothing I say, can change that.